


Unwind for a Change

by Truth



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991 movie)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:Leaper182
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to keep going, alone in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwind for a Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leaper182](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=leaper182).



  


## Unwind for a Change

  
Fandom: [Beauty and the Beast (1991 movie)](http://yuletidetreasure.org/get_fandom_quicksearch.cgi?Fandom=Beauty%20and%20the%20Beast%20\(1991%20movie\))

  
Written for: Leaper182 in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge

by [Truth](http://yuletidetreasure.org/cgi-bin/contact.cgi?filename=76/unwindfor)  


It's hard to keep going, alone in the dark.

"It's Hard to Keep Going, Alone in the Dark"

It was always cold in the echoing corridors of the castle. His Highness shunned the light, so it was not only cold, but dark. Out of habit, the fireplaces were kept clean and ready to be lit, but only the fires in the prince's quarters and the kitchen were lit and even then they were at a low smolder, or banked entirely.

The Prince had almost as little need for heat as he did for light, and the servants...? He'd never had any particular care for their comfort and, even if he had, they now felt the cold less even than he. Light, however, would have been a boon to most of them - at least at the beginning.

Cogsworth hated the darkness. He hated the strange noises he made as he bounced down the long hallways, hearing it echoed back to him as if he weren't truly alone. He hated the grim, clean, abandoned perfection of each empty room as he moved from one to the next, peering through the darkness as best he could.

Most of all, he hated the loneliness.

Once upon a time, there had been a host of servants within the castle. The stones themselves had never been silent, echoing the laughter of the guests and the chatter of the servants, reflecting the many lights and giving warmth to even the most remote and drafty towers and corridors.

Those times were years past now. The guests had become a mere memory and their abandoned rooms kept perfectly tidy by servants who, themselves, were fading more and more into their new roles. Long treated as tools by their vain and inattentive master, tools they were becoming in truth. The small legion of maids, footmen, scullery urchins, pages, housekeepers, grooms, coachmen and all were becoming less and less distinguishable from the household items and implements they now resembled. They carried out their tasks and returned to their hooks or their cupboards and each day they lost a little more of themselves.

This castle, these people - they were _his_ responsibility, and Cogsworth wondered sometimes if they were aware enough to realize how hard he was trying to keep everything running, everything in _order_ so that they would all keep moving just a little while longer.

A little longer was all they had left. Six years had passed since their Prince had become a beast, and everything and everyone was slowing, eternally slowing, and sooner or later all would be dark and still.

Cogsworth bounced down the long, dark halls every morning and evening, checking on everyone's work, fussing over the details, demanding perfection in the tiniest, silliest tasks, trying to keep everyone moving forward. There was still _life_ here, still something worth doing, something worth saving.

It became more and more difficult to leave the light and warmth of the kitchen for the chill of the abandoned halls. Mrs. Potts exerted herself to keep the place as bright and homey as she could, playing silly games with the last of her children still awake enough to tumble from their cupboard in the mornings.

The impetus Cogsworth kept before him was to once again hear the bright laughter of children ringing in the castle. He'd never been fond of the pages, the urchins and the stable-children. They were disruptive and messy and entirely disorganized, even when doing their jobs... but they'd been the first to fall into restless slumber, only waking long enough for their duties. They no longer played in the stable yard, or ran behind the kitchen gardens. There were no muffled giggles or the clatter of running feet and whoops of delight. He hadn't realized how much he'd enjoyed looming over them with a ridiculous scowl and watching them scatter with shrieks of terrified glee at having _almost_ been caught.

Watching Mrs. Potts struggle in the kitchen, to always keep a smile on her face as one by one the people she knew and loved succumbed to slumber, was almost more than he could bear.

With each passing day, the weight of his responsibilities bore him further down. He wanted to run away, flee the castle and feel the heavy, 'prisoning wood and metal fall away and leave him free of this ugly, painful duty. It was a fantasy, to be free of the curse and the ache of impending doom. He wanted it with such strength that it caused his gears to grind and ache... but he would not follow that wild urge, even if he could. These were _his_ people, and no matter how desperately afraid he was, he would not leave them.

So he bobbled awkwardly along the cold, dark corridors, fussing irritably about every speck of dust and smear of dirt, issuing quavering demands to the blackness that involved airing out of bedding no longer used and the polishing of andirons for hearths that hadn't held a fire in years. He moved alone in a world of shadows and silent servants, pretending that he wasn't holding fear at bay with the sound of his own voice.

Chamberlin was a lonely position, and Cogsworth had long resigned himself to being the fussy, domineering administrator that everyone obeyed and no one admired. With the Prince interested only in himself and his own pleasure, it was Cogsworth who saw to every day-to-day detail. He'd had a set of pages to run messages, two footmen to take care of any emergency while he barked orders.... He hadn't had friends, mind you. Too low for the guests and too high for the other servants, but he'd never seen it as a drawback. He had loved his position and the power it brought him, giving him a strut to his step and a stature beyond his height.

Now here he was, alone in the shadowy vaulted passages, shying from unexpected shapes in the gloom and trying desperately to keep the others awake - _alive_. He was lonely, so very lonely, and terribly afraid.

Stairs were always a challenge, and the castle had so very many of them. Cogsworth hated them and it always took him a few moments at the top of any height before he could screw up his courage to venture hopping downward. Up was more difficult, but painful mostly to his dignity. The little stubby things that counted for arms and legs simply weren't up to the task, and it was a testament to his determination that he made his circuit of the castle twice a day despite the difficulties.

Longing for the warmth and light of the kitchen fire, Cogsworth hesitated at the top of the great staircase. Falling was a frequent occurrence - also a painful one. Funny how you could be so indestructible yet still feel every bit of impact. He put both stubby hands over his glass stomach, working up the courage to take that first hop downward into the darkness.

Just as he was tipping on the verge, a decidedly feminine giggle caused him to nearly to lose his balance. Arms waving madly for balance, he eventually tipped backward, landing on his back, head spinning. He lay there for several minutes, like an overturned turtle, trying to catch his purely metaphorical breath.

The giggle came again, followed by the low, breathless murmur of a _very_ familiar voice. Cogsworth found himself upright again almost immediately, a burst of righteous indignation accomplishing what five minutes of helpless rocking wouldn't have brought.

"Lumiere!"

The feminine giggle cut off mid-titter and, as Cogsworth glared across the shadowed landing, the tassels at the base of the tapestry against the wall _moved_. "Come out from there at _once!_ "

A moment later, one of the maids appeared from behind the heavy, draping fabric and, bobbing hastily to Cogsworth, swept away across the floor with a distracting wiggle. With a fuming _bounce_ he poked and prodded at the tapestry until he came to a suspicious lump. "You're not supposed to -"

With a sideways slide, the object of his wrath appeared in the hallway, bringing a slow surge of light and warmth with him. Instead of properly presenting himself for chastisement, he was smiling after the departing maid, a wide smile upon his face.

"Ah, Cogsworth," he sighed. "You do not know what it is to be - "

"No!" Cogsworth huffed, "I do not, and neither should _you_ , Lumiere! That girl is - "

"She is my responsibility," Lumiere told him, drawing himself up and thus towering over the tubby little Chamberlain. "I take such responsibilities," as the silly grin on his face widened, "very, very seriously."

"You-!"

"Come now, Cogsworth," one bright arm wrapping around behind him to rest against a scroll. "She looks very lively, does she not?"

Cogsworth deflated slightly, peering after the now-vanished maid. The maids _were_ the direct charge of the Steward, after all - and the girl had looked very wide awake indeed. In point of fact, the maids were almost the only servants still giggling and whispering amongst themselves even as the rest grew slowly silent and still.

Thoughtfully, Lumiere removed his arm and took two steps away, anticipating Cogsworth's train of thought even as it came to its inevitable conclusion.

"Do you mean that you've been, been molesting _all_ the female staff?" Cogsworth's stubby arms were wind-milling again as he rounded on the tall figure of the Steward.

"Not all," Lumiere told him, looking down his nose and assuming an attitude of offense. "And I am not molesting anyone. There's nothing wrong with a bit of harmless flirtation."

" _Harmless_?" Cogsworth began to give off a rapid series of chimes, a certain indication of emotional distress. "Those girls are - "

"Are my responsibility," Lumiere agreed loftily. "And aren't they all so very lively?"

Cogsworth might have accepted this as misguided altruism, if the words hadn't ended with a wide grin and a wink. "You - !"

"You never finish your sentences, Cogsworth." Lumiere had turned and was rapidly skipping from one step to another, disappearing down the stairs and taking his light and warmth with him. "Perhaps _you_ should spend some time with the maids!"

Without pausing to think about his actions, Cogsworth bounced wildly down the steps after the departing Steward, gaining height with each indignant bound. "I have responsibilities! I have duties! I have -!"

He seemed destined not to finish a single sentence, as his last bounce caused him to miss the last step and, a moment later, he was rolling across the floor at the base of the staircase, still sputtering with indignation. When he finally came to a halt, not so much hurt as shaken and still chiming wildly, he was again alone in the dark.

Feeling somehow colder than ever, he managed to rock himself to an upright position before wobbling sadly across the great hall and back toward the haven of Mrs. Pott's kitchen.

Cogsworth stood beside the banked fire after Mrs. Potts had wished him a good night and swept Chip away into his cupboard. He found himself drowsing as he stared into the faint glow of the few remaining coals on the very edge of the hearth, remembering happier times, when everything went according to plan. He smiled faintly, as his eyes closed, thinking of when his greatest worry was whether that shifty footman was stealing, or the new maid had forgotten to properly empty the chamber pots.

His rest was uneasy and it was just before dawn when he woke with a start, trying to ascertain exactly what had jolted him awake. A few minutes passed before he realized that he was _ticking_. With an uneasy sinking feeling somewhere around his pendulum, he waddled out of the kitchen in search of a mirror. Ten minutes later, as he carefully scaled a small table so that he could get to a mirror, he nearly startled himself into falling by _chiming_.

Frantically, Cogsworth, reached the top of the enameled table and rushed to the mirror. Horrified, his shapeless hands went to his face, where he could _see_ the smallest hand carefully marking the passing seconds.

He was losing the battle to stay human, to stay _himself_. He was sliding toward the inevitable fate of standing on a mantelpiece and marking the passing time as the moments slid irrevocably into the abyss. Soon he'd be as much a piece of household bric-a-brac as the rest of them, and there'd be _no one_ to rouse them from their slumber, even for the automatic motions of their daily work. They would all sleep, slowly disappearing beneath the mounting dust until, one day, there'd be nothing left at all of the people who had once given life to this place.

Not even memories.

Frozen with horror, the Chamberlain could feel a terrified shriek building up somewhere beneath the surface. Misery gripped him and he could feel his gears creaking with tension. He was trying so hard, he was trying _so_ hard and he'd failed. He'd....

"It's not a face I'd enjoy seeing in the mirror, I admit, but it's certainly better than having to see it all the time?" The smooth voice startled Cogsworth into nearly falling from the small table, and he whirled awkwardly to find himself face to... chest, with Lumiere. He'd been so wrapped up in his growing horror that the reflection from the light which the Steward always carried hadn't made any impression.

"Lumiere?"

Lumiere leaned past him and examined his own face in the mirror, producing a confident grin and a wiggle of his waxen brow. "You, on the other hand, have the joy of beholding _my_ glorious face at my every appearance. I hope that you're appropriately grateful."

Face working with a combination of horror and shock, Cogsworth fought for words.

Bright arms were folded atop the scrollwork that crested Cogsworth's terrified face, and Lumiere rested his chin atop it, absently dripping wax on one of Cogsworth's arms. He gave his reflection a satisfied smile. "Perfection."

The hot wax running down his side finally broke the spell and Cogsworth exploded into indignant motion, flailing at Lumiere and nearly knocking himself against the elaborate frame of the mirror. "You, you, _you_ -!"

Somehow, Lumiere still managed to preen, looking at his reflection over Cogsworth's head. "Meeee," he agreed, drawing out the word.

An outraged howl broke free as Cogsworth turned and flailed his stubby arms at the tall Steward. "It's not about you!"

There was a confused tumble of light and glass, a frantic chiming sound and a terrible, terrible crash.

When the sparkling stars playing behind his eyes began to fade, Cogsworth found himself staring up at the vaulted ceiling - watching the light of the rising sun creep up the wall. An unhappy groan told him that he was not alone, sprawled on the floor, but he lacked the energy to rock himself back to his feet.

"It's not about you," he mumbled tiredly, turning the observation on himself for the first time and feeling a secondary surge of defeat. "I can't do this. I've tried and tried, but I can't. I'm lost. Soon I'll just be a clock, and I'll tick and I'll chime and eventually," fighting back a sob, "I'll run down and there'll be nothing left. Nothing."

A faint flicker of light came from down near his feet as Lumiere slowly pulled himself upright, swaying a little as flame licked to full life. "You still fight, you still make your rounds of the castle. As long as you keep moving, you will give the dust nowhere to settle."

Cogsworth stayed flat on the floor as the light faded, feeling the chill of the stone beneath him even as the sun continued to rise. It was a colder light, somehow, and by the time he struggled up the kitchen stairs to start his morning circuit of the castle, he was several hours late. For the first time, it was a silent tour, peering into the silent rooms and watching the work taking place there with a numbing sense of dread. Were there still minds behind the movement taking place, or was it merely magic and long habit carrying them all through the motions.

That evening, as the sun set, he stayed huddled beside the tiny kitchen fire as the time for his normal rounds slipped past. Eventually, Mrs. Potts sent Chip to play in the sink and hopped to rest beside the disconsolate Chamberlain.

"Really, Cogsworth," as she paused to blow on the fire, "whatever is the matter with you? You're acting not at all like your usual self."

"We're losing ground," he mumbled, stretching out his short little arms toward the fire. "Time is running out, you know."

Mrs. Potts turned and glanced up toward the ceiling. "Yes, love," she sighed, "I know."

Really, it was a totally inappropriate thing to say, but Mrs. Potts had never been much of a one for protocol and Cogsworth had long since lost the ability to work himself into a huff over her informality and insubordinate declarations of affection. He was not, after all, one of the scullery children.

Opening his mouth to say something more, his gaze caught on Mrs. Potts' attitude, looking upward, and he felt suddenly both angry and ashamed. He turned his back to the fire, straightened his wooden shoulders and marched unsteadily from the room.

Cogsworth's evening circuit of the castle was just as quiet as his morning, but instead of finishing up by hopping down the great staircase, he turned instead and started slowly up the stairs again. This area had been removed from his domain, violently, a long time ago and as he moved upward, the carefully kept hangings and rugs became grey and ragged. The doors hung askew on their hinges and some of the pictures had been torn out of their frames, which hung now twisted on the walls or crumbled on the stone floor.

He hopped nervously along, occasionally peering over his shoulder as the familiar shadows of his normal route grew into alarming, moving shapes. By the time he reached his destination, ducking under the crazily shattered door and peering within the darkened room, he was attempting to tip-toe, something entirely impossible in his current, wooden condition.

There was light here, a shimmering, glowing beauty that illuminated nothing beyond the glass that shielded it and Cogsworth felt his breath catch as he stared, helplessly, at the glory of their collective, implacable fate. The rose left by the angry sorceress had not merely doomed their Prince to a short, miserable life of isolation and pain, but all within his house.

He hopped closer, entirely caught up in the glorious, poison glow that was slowly killing them all. It had been a wicked, wicked deed. Perhaps arrogance deserved to be punished and certainly proper manners had their place, but there were children within the castle, innocent bystanders, men and women whose only sin was to serve their prince. She had judged them all and he found himself suffused by _hate_.

The faint 'tickticktick' that had been with him since his early morning awakening stuttered for a brief moment as he moved directly before the small table where the poisoned rose sat, giving off that soft, seductive glow. She could not be allowed to win.

Cogsworth heard soft movement in the room and went very still, directing his eyes to the floor as a low growl demanded, "Well? What brings you here, _clock_?"

"M-merely to see if your orders have c-changed, Highness." He had once come to the Prince's chambers every evening at dinnertime to ask for his orders for the following day. Cogsworth had not ventured to show himself in these dark, ruined rooms for years. Fear had ruled them all, then. Safe routine had become habit, habit had become rote and it was no wonder that he'd begun to chime the hours.

Cogsworth had abandoned his master in his hour of need, finding refuge in the fiction that he was still doing his duty, while leaving the young prince to fend for himself. Shame kept him from even glancing upward, to see again the horror that his prince had become. It wasn't his fault and it was ignoble to treat him like the animal he now resembled. Fear had kept him away... and that was inexcusable, a dereliction of duty worse even than hiding by Mrs. Potts' fireplace.

"What point would there be in that? Get out."

Cogsworth gave a stiff bow, the best he could manage, and scuttled to the door. He paused beneath the shattered wood to glance back, catching only the merest flash of a hulking shadow behind the deadly rose. Taking a deep breath, he ventured back into the gloom.

He would come again tomorrow and the day after. For all his selfishness, their Prince was not a cruel man. Cogsworth's duty was to serve, and serve he would. His fear was not the fault of his prince.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he suddenly realized that he was no longer chiming, although a hesitant hand to his face revealed that the second hand was still chipping away at the time they had left. He shuddered and snatched his hand way, turning to move down the stairs. Cogsworth took the first hop down only to be arrested, again, by a far-away giggle.

He half-turned, feeling his temper rise... and stopped.

Lumiere was merely the Steward, in charge of the kitchens and the staff. Cogsworth was the Chamberlain, in charge of accounts, the grounds, the castle... and of Lumiere. Cogsworth held his post because he had a fussy insistence on detail and was terribly good with numbers. Lumiere was his Steward because Cogsworth was just plain terrible when it came to people. Lumiere, on the other hand?

The maids were the only group still truly awake, and they laughed and giggled at Lumiere's stolen kisses and terribly flirtatious ways because none of them took him seriously. They did not fear for their position or what he might do to them alone in the hallways. They indulged him because he was playing a game, and it was a game they could win - or end.

Strong interest or emotion was what kept you awake, kept you from becoming as still as the _real_ furniture that lined the silent halls. Mrs. Potts had her Chip. Cogsworth had his duty although that had, of late, seemingly not been enough. Lumiere had....

Lumiere had been going out of his way these past few weeks to drive Cogsworth from his normal complacency and into incoherent wrath - wrath that kept blood pumping through a body that should have been entirely wood and glass and metal.

Cogsworth turned on the stairs and struggled back up to the landing, ignoring the breathless giggles and familiar murmur. He opened his mouth to call out and found himself hesitating, eventually turning away to bounce slowly back down the stairs.

Optimism was a foreign concept to the stodgy Cogsworth, but if Lumiere could do it, if Lumiere could struggle to _offer_ it, in such a way that in the rejection it would be accepted? He knew Cogsworth better than the Chamberlain knew himself, apparently, and offered a precious gift - one not to be scorned. The thought gave him a warm glow somewhere behind his pendulum, and he straightened his stiff, wooden shoulders.

If Lumiere could persevere, so could he. After all, was _he_ not the Prince's Chamberlain?

On the third night that, as he hesitated before the darkened stairway, the shadows slowly retreated, driven away by the light of the Steward as he joined the Chamberlain at the base of the stairs. "Are you really going up there?" Lumiere leaned forward, casting light before them.

"Of course I am," Cogsworth huffed, drawing himself up. He deflated again almost immediately, sighing. "He's very angry and more, more like a- a beast than ever. There must be a way to - to fix things."

"We know there is a way," Lumiere chided him, shaking his head and casting long, flickering shadows against the steps. "But it is out of our control."

"There must be something more!" Steeling himself, Cogsworth scrambled awkwardly up the stairs, somehow unsurprised to find Lumiere hopping in his wake.

The long, dark journey was both swifter and less anxious with Lumiere's light and warmth behind him and when Cogsworth edged into the lovely glow of the noxious rose, his master was waiting for him.

"Clock." Cogsworth had once had a real name, but it had been lost shortly after the spell truly took hold. They names they answered to now were part of the spell, something that bound them to what they were becoming - but of course, no one had told their Prince.

"Your Highness." Cogsworth attempted a bow, but it didn't quite come off. "Have you - "

Lumiere interrupted him, bouncing forward and managing a much more fluid bow. "Your Highness, it is I, Lumiere." He made a series of broad gestures, indicating the room about them, a continued coaxingly. "It is very cold and dank in this part of the castle. We have prepared a fire below and a hot meal...?"

"Lumiere." The deep voice sounded almost surprised. A clawed... hand appeared, stabbing a long claw and Cogsworth. "And you, Clock?"

Taking a startled leap back, Cogsworth gathered himself and answered, "Cogsworth, your Highness." He glanced nervously at Lumiere. "Perhaps some tea...?"

The scene was a bizarre one, even for the darkened halls of a cursed castle. An enormous beast, wrapped in the crumbling tatters of finery, sprawled uncomfortably in a large chair before a roaring fire, attended by small group of household bric-a-brac and holding a large bowl of tea in both clumsy hands.

"Why did you do that?" Cogsworth hissed to Lumiere, as fresh clothing was brought forth and reverently offered to their long-absent prince. "It was, it was _cheek_."

"It's what he needs," Lumiere argued, also softly. "He's forgotten to be a man, just as we have. He needs to remember the little things."

When their master finally retired again to brood over the cause of his destruction, there was an air of expectation in the halls that Cogsworth could not remember feeling in several years. There were sounds here and there in corridors that had been silent for a very long time. The ottoman, which they had all somehow forgotten had once been the Prince's favorite pet, had chased after his master and startled them all severely in the doing.

"How did you know?" Cogsworth asked Lumiere, startled out of his normal, disgruntled assessment of the Steward as a selfish, care-for-nobody.

Lumiere just smiled at him. "Everyone needs a little affection, Cogsworth. Even if it isn't 'proper'."

Cogsworth gave him a grumpy 'harumph', but found himself wondering, again, if there might not be more to the Steward than he'd previously imagined.

At the very least, his nightly rounds were no longer a timid venture in the cold darkness, and Lumiere's presence gave him someone to talk to, instead of merely barking orders and blustering into empty silence.

For a while, a very brief while, it seemed that everyone was coming awake, that life was returning fully to the cursed denizens of the forgotten castle. Hope, however, is a cruel, fleeting emotion and eventually, as the years continued to pass, the inevitable silence again crept throughout the castle. Even the maids eventually ceased to giggle and swish through the corridors, and the ottoman disappeared entirely.

Cogsworth's last, really clear thought was that at least he could _choose_ the mantelpiece on which he would spend his last few hours. Mrs. Potts had finally lost her cheery chattering just a few days before, and he hadn't seen Lumiere in a week.

It didn't hurt, after all. Just a simple matter of running out of time....

Joy was to find himself shaken awake by a Steward who was nearly dancing with wild, happy agitation. Anticipation had them both rushing to a window and then to a table near one of the doors. The entrance of someone real, someone _alive_ , blew a breath of freshness through even those still sleeping, and the curse seemed to waver as the strange man fumbled his half-frozen way inside.

The cold, ponderous march of time seemed suddenly over, minutes and hours flying past and suddenly, to watch with held breath as light and color flooded the darkened, lifeless castle with the patter of rapid footsteps and the rustle of a long skirt. Life pulsed again through the spellbound servants, waking them _all_ in ones and twos as the choking magic wavered. Hope returned with a shocking rush and, this time, Cogsworth held it tightly with both fingerless hands.

Their time was running out, and none knew that better than he, but she was _here_ and surely all that was needed was a few more minutes.... They would regain their stolen lives. He would test this new, hesitant understanding of the _impossible_ Lumiere - and everything would turn out for the best.  


   
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